I wouldn’t take on blogging everyday for a month and then back down unless something really crazy happened. So here’s my excuse.
I had to go to the ER on Saturday night, we thought I had H1NI — yeah, seriously. But no, it was something else. Acute bacterial bronchitis.
My whole body ached, I couldn’t breathe, and therein lay the problem. Two symptoms down. After the diagnosis and the repeated “Do you smoke?” questions — “No, I quit, three months ago” — I got a breathing treatment of pure O2 and saline, some antibiotics, an inhaler and steroids.
What I thought happened: At the Mute Math show on Wednesday, we waited outside in the rain for 30 minutes before getting in. The place holds almost 1000 people, and believe me, they had to lock it down, so it was AT capacity. Of mostly underage Twilight fans. A bunch of drunken underage shitbirds. Also, waiting in the rain (where I stepped in a puddle), I put a two-year old black Hefty bag on my head to stay dry. It had been in our storage shed, since moved to the back of our car. It could have had eggs from some unknown bug growing in it and I inhaled — never inhale!
But my husband got sick today, and had to go to the doctor, so now, we have narrowed it down to contagious drunken shitbird Twilight fans. I can’t speak without choking, but am getting better slowly but surely. My husband has turned into big baby, but since he took such good care of me yesterday, I can return the favor.
Today, I laid on the couch and watched The Year of Living Dangerously on Indieplex. I saw it when I was 13 in 1982, my husband would like to make the claim that he did too, but I told him he at the doubleplex viewing of Porky’s and The Empire Strikes Back, so STFU.
I really loved that movie, Sigourney Weaver still looks great, lets be honest, but she was rocking the Ralph Lauren early ’80s look then. Love the frizzy curls, too. And say what you want about Crazy Mel, and he is crazy as a…drunken shitbird, but he had IT back in the day. And then there’s Linda Hunt. I do miss the ’80s.
Nothing not to love about an old Peter Weir film. Don’t even get me started on Picnic at Hanging Rock. Whenever that comes on, I can’t turn away. It’s the Zamfir pipes soundtrack, people! And the freaky Victorian sexual repression!